The Low Road
by McMahonHelmsleyEraFan
Summary: Lies, manipulation and deception brought her to this point. Confessing the entirety of her misdeeds will set her free, but may destroy the world she's so carefully created.
1. Hush

I know I have no business starting anything new. But this idea has been bugging me for months. I touched on a bit of this with my fic "The Price of Fame"...which I abandoned because I changed my mind on the approach. In our 'ship/fandom we usually choose to read and write stories about Stephanie being sweet and relatively innocent. Rather than maybe taking what the smarks say about her and running with it. That's kinda what I'm doing. Except I'm not gonna go digging up smark articles to fuel this story I'll just use my imagination to tweak real-life happenings. That's all I can tell you guys here, without giving the surprises away. LOL

So here it is, my last gift to all you lovelies in 2013! Let me know what you think...it's a bit different than my usual!

* * *

Present Day

Stephanie Levesque groaned loudly, her body landing unceremoniously on a hard surface. Cement? Concrete? Brick? She was blindfolded and therefore had no idea what she'd practically crashed into. But it felt like every bone and organ in her body had been rattled out of place by the impact.

"P…Please," she begged. Her mind was foggy and dazed. She was unsure of what exactly she was begging for and to whom her pleas were directed.

A sinister chuckle. A hand in her hair…wrapping, wrapping. Now pulling upwards in a way that made her scalp singe with pain.

"Please what?" A distorted, unfamiliar voice asked mockingly.

The brunette took a deep breath as the hand released her hair and harshly shoved her away. She sat on the ground, rather uncomfortably, knees tied together and her hands bound in front of her, as if in prayer. But she didn't know what to pray for. Yes, she was the current captive, but if the real danger was to her kids…well, she preferred to be the sacrificial lamb. If she was granted her own release, there was a chance that one of them would be taken instead. It was a very real chance that she wasn't willing to take, quite honestly. So she tried another avenue. Understanding what this maniac wanted with her was paramount. "I…I have money?" She said hopefully and half as a question.

When the voice didn't respond, she allowed herself to elaborate. "You can have whatever you want! I swear to God if you end this quickly – my family pays and you let me go – that'll be the end of it. No one will look for you, no one will retal-"

A quick slap to the back of her head interrupted her. The slap hadn't hurt. It shocked her more than anything.

"You're pathetic!" The voice hissed at her. "Have you ever earned _anything_? Or have you just bribed and bought your way through life?"

Stephanie bit down on her lip hard, mostly to avoid mouthing off. Of course she'd earned some things on her own. Having a leg up in life wasn't a crime. It didn't change the fact that she worked damn hard for what she wanted and needed. And what the hell? It sounded like the voice was judging her for offering to pay her way out of this fucking mess. Didn't kidnappings usually involve a ransom of some kind? Why else would someone take her?

The voice sighed and was noticeably calmer than it had been a few seconds ago. "I don't want your money, Stephanie."

Well, there went the small amount of doubt she had about this person not knowing who they'd taken. She wasn't sure if it would have been better if this individual had just nabbed some random woman off the street. Instead, she'd been chosen specifically. She shuddered as all of the possible reasons why, flittered through her mind one by one.

"Please don't hurt my family," she pleaded tearfully.

The voice remained silent, which only served to make the brunette's fear and frustration intensify. Her tears soaked through the blindfold, making the material even more uncomfortable than it already was. Why was this happening to her? What had she done that was terrible enough to warrant imprisonment? Her most important titles were: wife, mother, daughter, sister and aunt. She worked, ate, worked out and spent time with her family. It all made for a fairly normal life…except for the fact that she worked for her father's wrestling juggernaut, the WWE. There was always some sort of chaos occurring but in their industry that was normal.

Goddammit…she'd put her name on the list to volunteer for certain weekend activities at Aurora's new school. Made sure it didn't interfere with play-dates Murphy had with her little friends. Vaughn was just a few months old, but somehow still had…_things_. Stephanie's life revolved around family and work and she couldn't understand how she'd made such a huge enemy, with such limited time. The next thing she knew, a sob-wrenched, desperate, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" left her lips.

Everything around her remained quiet. So quiet, in fact, that she actually wondered if she'd been left alone. Blindly, she turned her head all around and instantly regretted it. Her entire body ached and the cloud that had descended over her mind had yet to leave. On top of that, she now felt further disoriented by the prolonged stillness of the atmosphere.

Maybe she was being Punk'd or something. She doubted it, since the pranks never resulted in physical harm to anyone. But still. She'd heard the reports about the show being revived a couple months ago. If that little shit Jacob Bieber – or whatever his name was – was responsible for this, she'd make his life miserable. Or maybe not. She'd probably just be grateful that this living nightmare was a ruse.

Stephanie heard a car door slam in the distance. The same one that had been slammed just before she was tossed out of the vehicle and to the ground like a piece of trash. Was her captor leaving? Maybe she could find a way to free herself while they were gone. Or at least get the blindfold off so that she had an idea of what she could use in this place to help her situation.

Footsteps approached her. But she then realized she hadn't actually heard a set leave her presence.

So she was unsurprised – but appropriately terrified – when another distorted voice made itself known. This one had a deeper pitch than the first voice. The two muttered back and forth in hushed tones as Stephanie strained her ears to make out what they were saying. Another onslaught of wetness leaked through her eyes and she finally became so dizzy that she lost the war with balance and fell to her side.

The only readily audible sound was that of her own breathing. Until her captors finally settled on their unanimous answer.

"The truth."


	2. Scripted

Ummm...so I'd intended to write the prologue for "Brink" (Borderline's sequel) today, to usher in the New Year. And somehow I ended up with this instead.

To an extent, I was going with the flow as far as format. But now I've decided to do a present chapter, from the 3rd person (focusing on whomever is more relevant at the time), then a past chapter from Stephanie's POV. The rest of the story will alternate like that, until past and present meet and then we'll see where I go!

The reviews totally made me LOL, by the way. Let me know what ya'll think about this installment.

Note: if you see a whole sentence in italics it means that was a piece of an actual prior conversation of theirs. Or a thought Stephanie is directing towards whomever she's having a conversation with.

* * *

**_Stephanie_**

The night rolls on as planned.

During tonight's hall of fame ceremony, everything went as it should have. Coordinators, greeters, sound technicians, cameramen, presenters, award accepters (really, I couldn't think of anything better. A sad testament to how inspired I was from this evening) were all in place. All with well delivered hand gestures, speeches and jokes.

Not to be left out of this perfected script – we, the audience, smiled and laughed on cue. Looked pensive when it was warranted, nostalgic when it seemed appropriate. We cocked our heads and giggled as if we were all both curiously interested as well as amused. But only when invisibly instructed to do so.

Yes, we all had parts to play. And maybe, just maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. To make a good impression for television. Make the audience watching at home _feel _something. You know? We can never truly hold on to anything for any amount of time. At best, it's all about the memories. Creating them. Experiencing them. Chasing the good ones down as they run away from us. As if we are predators and the pleasant times are our prey. We hunt for those memories…and when we catch them – even if only for a moment – we demand more.

More, always more. Never satisfied.

That's what Paul says about me tonight.

It wasn't enough that I'd suggested we stay at the hotel that our coworkers were. That I'd convinced him to hit the heated pool with me last night. That I'd encouraged him to participate in brief interviews when all he wanted to do was escape the media frenzy and relax. Now, he figured I had nagged him into his current attire. In my mind, I thought I was being complimentary. _Hey babe, why not this one? It really looks amazing on you._

But he'd taken it as an insult. _So my appearance isn't acceptable to you unless I'm wearing shit that you handpick for me?_

I was stunned. _That's not what I-_

Interrupted. _Save it. Whatever, I don't even care._

Then why? WHY did you bother starting that quick, but intense fight? Asshole. But I didn't say that because it's pointless. Everything I say to the man as of late is perceived negatively. You'd think that he had somehow been the one to receive the unstable pregnancy hormones and mood swings, instead of me.

In public, we've disguised our deteriorating marriage better than this. We play our parts. We're both proudly beaming spouses, always doting affection upon the other when interviewed. We give compliments and praise. We drone on about how wonderful and loving the other is. He'll put his arm around me and I'll lean in to him. And for the few seconds or minutes that the cameras flash and record, the lie is believable.

The lie being: Paul and Stephanie Levesque, happily married couple that has yet to lose that newlywed glow and giddiness.

The truth is: Paul and Stephanie Levesque, married couple that can't have a simple conversation in private without it turning into an argument or perceived mind-fuck attack.

Our limo comes to a smooth halt and the door is pulled open in an instant. The driver steps aside and Paul hops out first. He clears his throat, nodding respectfully at the driver before turning to me. He holds his hand out for mine and I oblige him. His other hand comes to rest on the small of my back as I'm safely escorted to the curb. _Dear husband, the thorough pretender you are. God forbid anyone see you allowing your very pregnant wife to get out of the limo and enter the hotel without assistance. It would be downright inhumane._

I've always loved Paul's chivalry. I loved it when it was genuine and done because he truly cared about (and then finally, loved) me. Now it's just like a cruel inside joke. Or something. It's becoming increasingly difficult to identify any of my own feelings towards him that are not one of the following: disappointment, rage, longing...more rage.

We enter our hotel room in silence, where once there used to be casual and jovial chatter. In separate corners (worlds, symbolically speaking) we undress without even sneaking a flirtatious peek at the other.

As I get down to just my undergarments, it seems to occur to me that my sleepwear is on the other side of the room. Paul's side, as I'd ominously labeled it in my mind. I imagined myself feeling horribly self-conscious and not wanting to cross this barrier...vulnerable and exposed – my pregnancy hormones had perhaps gone haywire, he would think. My next actions would say that I didn't want him to stare at me if I walked across the room in my lacy little black, matching underwear. Whether it was to admire or loathe them I didn't want him looking at my ass, legs, arms or anything else.

Just…don't fucking look at me at all. Don't look at me, don't touch me…much like his behavior at tonight's ceremony. The great majority of the time he'd sat with his hands clasped, the arm closest to me, turned in the opposite direction. Every time I glanced up and over at him, I never found him looking back at me. It's like I wasn't even worth _pretending _for anymore. That would change. By the time we'd left the event, I'd decided as much.

So I masked my true motives and prepared to play the part I knew so well. Instead of walking and risking him seeing too much, I meekly asked, "Can you…my clothes…" I trail off as he looks up, gesturing my hand towards my neatly folded pile.

"Sure," he says with a casual shrug of his shoulders.

I stared at him, seemingly dazed. The woman whose attraction had not at all waned despite a recent lack of action. I inserted myself into this role seamlessly. Then he was standing in front of me, holding out my clothes as some kind of a peace offering.

Paul looks at me…and for the first time in weeks, I see my husband. Like, the man I married. His eyes are kind, sympathetic, probing. The polar opposite of the annoyed, disinterested, insulted hazel orbs I'd started to become annoyingly accustomed to. His mouth twists in consideration as I accept the clothing and begin to slip it on. It's not much – a tank top and some pajama pants with cute penguins floating about icicles, snowflakes and whatnot. I'm well aware that it's currently spring…but the pants are cute and it wasn't like Paul would notice or care anyway. That's what he'd think I was thinking when I selected the sleepwear. He was an intelligent man who picked up on those kinds of things - on symbolism, ironies, metaphors. All the little shit he didn't know I did on purpose to remind him of something undesirable that he'd said or done.

Because it always made him feel guilty and compelled him to behave better. Always.

"About tonight," he begins, unsurely. "I shouldn't have lost my temper with you like that."

_No, you shouldn't have. Especially not over something so trivial and ridiculous._ But he did. And so I nod at his conclusion. One thing I can say for my husband is that he has never actually yelled at me. Not once.

"And…" he continues, his fingers twitching. I can tell that he'd like to shove his hands into imaginary pockets. "The way I ignored you at the ceremony, in the limo…it…I mean I'm…I hope you understand that I didn't do it to hurt you."

There it is. The closest thing I'm going to get to an actual apology. He can't say that he's sorry. Because sorry was a regret and regret meant that you'd done something wrong. And Paul, who was constantly accused of wrongdoing since the day he entered the wrestling world, couldn't be that guy. The guy that made a mistake. The guy that hurt someone.

He'd been veering into that territory when he mentioned losing his temper. So instead, he's trying to subtly make this my fault. If my feelings are hurt, it's simply because I didn't _understand_ that wasn't his intention. And that's supposed to make everything right, but these ill attempts at non-apology (this is the most fucked up sentence ever, but at least this is all in my head) never solve anything. But that's okay.

"I understand."

This makes him smile at me cutely and draw me into him. He kisses me full on the lips, passionately – like we had always done until just a few weeks ago. His arms wrap around my waist.

I smile against his mouth. He thinks we're sharing the same emotion, I'm sure of it. I'm also sure that he thinks wrong. But that doesn't matter.

Electricity hums between us as we move towards the bed. Very glad I picked the matching, lacy underwear.


	3. Liar, Liar

Trying to stick this one out - I have the ending scenes pictured so perfectly in my mind. I just have to stay motivated and interested enough to write all the stuff in between. Ugh, writer problems! Lol.

So, in keeping with our format, this chapter is present day and I chose to focus on what's going on with their marriage from Paul's side, as well as his reaction to the disappearance. Read. Show love. Or constructive criticism. Enjoy!

* * *

Stephanie's voice came onto the line, inviting her callers to leave a message at the sound of the tone. When the beep came, Paul frowned angrily at his cell phone, promptly hung up and chucked the useless device into the passenger seat of his truck.

He wasn't going to leave a message. He'd lost track of the exact number of times he'd called her. Sometimes he'd left a message, sometimes not. They varied in terms of concern, intensity and…well, anger. He was fucking pissed.

Paul kept one hand on the wheel and used the other to pinch the bridge of his nose, to alleviate stress. It was a futile task as the messages he'd left replayed through his mind.

_Hey Steph. The nursery has been trying to get a hold of you. Call me back, please._

_Seriously, Steph? _He'd sighed in frustration. _I called you over an hour ago. Vaughn is sick and one of us needs to get to her. Your Dad has me out on a business meeting. I'd appreciate a call back._ Uncertain pause. When had they become so fucking formal with one another? Unable to think of a decent sendoff, while maintaining his irritation he'd simply continued without changing his tone._ Thanks. _

_Look, I don't know what kind of game you're playing at, Stephanie. If this is to punish me for this morning…_he'd stopped and shook his head at the nerve of her. _Mission accomplished. All right? You win. I had to cancel the meeting to go get our kid and your Dad is furious. Something about his bad luck and even his surrogate son being a disappointment. I didn't tell him that you're being totally unreachable. So your little fucking image of perfection remains intact. So congratulations to you! _Then he'd hung up.

Half an hour after that, he'd received a call from Stephanie's office. They were checking to see if Stephanie was returning to the office today. Apparently, she'd gone out for lunch and hadn't yet returned. It wasn't unusual for her to take a leisurely lunch of an hour…sometimes a little more. But this was ridiculous. She'd left right at noon. Three hours ago.

He pulled up in front of Vaughn's daycare and sighed. He couldn't go in to get his sick baby like this. He needed to be calm and rational. Two feelings that his wife absolutely did not produce in him anymore. But he wouldn't let her have that power where it pertained to their kids.

So he took in a deep breath and tried her phone again. It went to voicemail after a few rings, again.

"I'm…" he hesitated with a long pause. He'd almost apologized but that wasn't quite right for the way he felt about his phone calls. "I shouldn't have went at you like that, Steph," he relented. "I'm just frustrated. With everything. Your office doesn't know where you are, our daughter is sick, your Dad is…" he stopped short, trying to find a description that matched Vince McMahon but wasn't completely offensive. He found none. "Well…he's being your Dad. Today is…complicated. But I'm here to get the baby now and we're heading home," he explained weakly. He knew he should say more but he didn't want to do it to a fucking answering machine. Hell, he didn't want to say anything else, period. He wished things would go back to being simple. Where a look or gesture would do the trick. Where conversation was light and uncomplicated. But that was easier said than done over the last year or so. "Things have been weird. Muddled. You know? Lately we're not _us_, Steph. Maybe we can talk about everything when the kids are off to bed tonight. Clear the air. Figure out where we've been going wrong. I feel like I'm l-" he was cut off by the recording system letting him know he was out of time. He felt too emotionally drained to repeat himself – saying all of that once was bad enough, trying to remember it all, but make it concise was torture. So he simply hung up and sat in the Hummer while he collected his thoughts and tried to get a grip on himself.

The sentence that he didn't get to finish was probably better left unsaid anyways. On the tip of his tongue had been that he felt like he was losing her. But as he trudged up the pathway to the private nursery, he wondered if he already had. It wasn't like her to skip out on work, nor to shirk her responsibilities as a mother. Of the two of them, she was the more involved parent. It's just the way things were, being that he was often attending live events and working directly with talent. He always wondered how resentful she truly was at the fact that he was a part-time father and husband. After all, before they'd gotten married he had promised her that he wouldn't be _that _guy. The one wrestling well into middle age, leaving his wife to raise the children almost singlehandedly.

It must bother her, to some degree. Otherwise she wouldn't have cared enough to notice or comment on his frequent absences. She didn't _push_ because that wasn't her nature. Even before they were officially dating, one of her most endearing qualities had been that she allowed people to chase their dreams and whatnot. She didn't interfere or discourage. Instead she was as steady as a rock, providing support and encouragement, regardless of the eventual outcome.

Paul had found that refreshing and their friendship grew. He began to tell her of the numerous unhappy couples of the wrestling world. Wives and girlfriends who were fine with the lifestyle at first but gradually began to nag and guilt trip their partners for being gone, as time went on. Guys who cheated while they were on the road – particularly if they felt entitled because the pissed off partner back at home had "driven" them to it. Sometimes the gender roles were reversed, where it was the female talent pissing off their male partners back home.

Stephanie didn't understand it; how someone went into a situation fully informed and then flipped out later when the circumstances remained largely unchanged. They'd laughed together in agreement on this. Back then it felt like he could talk to her about anything. She'd quickly become one of his closest friends. And after his relationship got blown to pieces for no actual reason, Stephanie had been there, steady and understanding as usual. It wasn't long before he finally let himself feel drawn to her physically. As Vince's daughter and his friend, he'd allowed himself to describe her as being cute. Attractive. But once complications named Joanie were removed, he was free to take her in fully. Not only was she drop-dead gorgeous, but her personality was unlike any other woman he'd ever met. He'd have been a fool not to see what could develop between them.

And even after marriage and two baby girls, that lightheartedness about their relationship still remained. Things between them began to change right around Aurora and Murphy's birthdays. They'd turned three and one, respectively. And shortly afterwards, Stephanie became pregnant with Vaughn. He had no idea what changed; it was like a light switch had been flipped off in their marriage. They had no time to truly discuss what happened between chasing around toddlers, having another pregnancy, working themselves into the ground at WWE Corporate…and in his case, traveling the country and banging his body up in matches. Personally, he was exhausted and overwhelmed and may have possibly taken it out on Steph. Maybe this is what had changed her from the sweet, good-natured, down to earth woman he could share anything with…into the distant shell of herself that she now was. He never felt like he knew what went on in that head of hers anymore. She could go an entire day smiling and carefree as she used to be and without warning a darker look would be there. Flickering through her eyes for just a moment before she blinked it away. Presenting itself in the clenching of her jaw or firm set of her lips before she quickly relaxed them.

At times he thought he was losing his mind. Stephanie never acknowledged what he'd seen. And to everyone he spoke to, the feedback was that she was as sweet as pie. Even if one of them had been the name that came up right before a…dark look.

The shrill ringing of his cell phone interrupted his thoughts and startled him. He quickly yanked up the phone, willing for the readout to be Stephanie's name. Instead, the number was totally unfamiliar to him.

He opened the door to the Hummer and headed towards the private, gated nursery building before he accepted the call.

"This is Paul," he answered professionally.

"Mr. Paul Levesque?" A male voice questioned.

"Yes," Paul answered slowly, furrowing his brow. "Who is this?" He asked, punching the buzzer on the gate. Within a couple of seconds, the gate buzzed and he was allowed entry.

"This is Detective Frank Allen with the Stamford Police Department," the voice informed him neutrally. "Is it all right to ask a couple of basic questions?"

Paul swallowed hard and nodded. Then he realized that this was a phone conversation and finally replied with a verbal, "Yes." Why the hell was he being called by the police? He wasn't involved in criminal activity. And nothing had happened to anybody that he knew of.

Unless…No. It couldn't be. Stephanie was just angry with him, purposely inconveniencing him and trying to make him worry about and appreciate her more. Or something. It was another of her tests. Tests that he apparently failed with constantly regularity because he never knew the fucking things were even in progress. How unfair was that?

"Mr. Levesque, when is the last time you heard from your wife? Stephanie Levesque."

"This morning when she left for work. About seven-thirty," Paul answered without hesitation. He stopped at the front desk of the nursery, scribbling his name alongside Vaughn's on the sign-in sheet.

"Uh huh," the detective muttered and Paul could hear him scribbling down notes. "It's just after three now. Is it unusual for you not to hear from her this long?"

Paul tugged at the collar of his shirt, feeling himself becoming flushed. He rounded the corner and almost ran straight into Alice.

"No. It depends on how our workdays shape up," he answered.

"I see," the detective said, scribbling again, no doubt.

Alice, a petite blonde with gray eyes, made affectionate noises to the little girl she was holding. "Look Vaughnie," she said enthusiastically. "It's your Daddy," she told her, turning the baby around to face him.

Vaughn rubbed at her eyes and reached out for Paul, who took her instantly. "Hi Princess!" He told her, placing a kiss on her rosy cheek. He frowned at how warm she was. "Thanks Alice," he told the young woman.

Detective Allen cleared his throat to get Paul's attention. "We're gonna need you to come down and answer some routine questions regarding your wife's disappearance."

"My…" Paul blinked in shock. "What?" He asked, lamely.

"Jonny's Pizza. Has she ever mentioned the place?"

He hesitated. "Jonny's Pizza?" He asked, as if trying to recall the name from memory. Shoulders tensing, he answered, "No she's never mentioned it."

"Huh," Detective Allen mused. "Her staff said she frequented the place and that's where she was heading for lunch today."

"Oh," was all Paul said.

"A black Suburban was found in the parking lot of the restaurant," the detective informed him.

"It might not be hers," Paul replied sensibly.

"The vehicle's registration is in her name."

Silence dominated the line while Paul tried to process what exactly he was hearing. They found Stephanie's car, but not the woman herself? How was this possible? Maybe she'd just…wandered off somewhere. If they thought anything bad actually happened, he doubted this conversation would be happening this way. Spouses were _always _suspect number one when a partner went missing. Wherever she was, she was obviously fine and simply dragging this out for attention and sympathy, perhaps. Maybe she thought this was the way to fix their broken marriage – scare the shit out of him so that they'd draw close again. Involving police was a bit drastic, even for her, though.

"We're gonna need you to come down to the station, Mr. Levesque. Think real hard and be forthcoming about anything that can help us locate your wife."

"I…" he started, but trailed off just as quickly. This detective was hilarious – they'd have a better chance at figuring Stephanie out than he did. He'd been with her for ten years, married for almost eight and felt like he knew less about her with each passing day. But he couldn't very well say that, could he? "Okay. Whatever I can do to help," he said earnestly.

Alice's mouth parted; she clearly had something to say. But she thought better of it and simply mumbled out something about hoping Steph was okay and that Vaughn would get better soon, before walking off. He wondered if Detective Allen's search would lead him to this nursery. He hoped not, since it was very apparent to Alice that he'd lied to the cops while his wife was nowhere to be found.


	4. Mine Again

Okay guys, so this is gonna get a bit A/U-ish. I've pulled the names of several former members of the creative team. I'm too lazy to figure out what storylines were occurring back in mid-2010 so I'll be winging it with my imagination there. How Steph interacts with her team will become significant. In this fic, Shane is still with the company (haven't decided on Linda yet). There will be other changes as I go along, I'm sure. So no reviews like "that's not how it happened" please. LOL. Everything else? Gimme gimme! Thanks for the support so far!

Also, I may change the layout a bit, like writing a past chapter from the 3rd person or from Paul's perspective. Or a present chapter from Steph's perspective. Haven't decided yet, but we'll see! And to answer a couple questions: Paul isn't concerned over Steph's disappearance at this point...he thinks this is some mind-fuck scheme of hers.

* * *

_**Stephanie**_

From down the hallway, I can see Paul demonstrating how to throw a punch and make it look more damaging than it really is.

His student in passing (as is just about half the current roster, actually) has come a long way, I'll give her that. Paul's tutelage of the young woman isn't what makes a tingle of anger shoot through my spine.

Barbara Jean Blank. What an utterly ordinary name. It almost sounds like something better suited for a woman at least three decades older. The paradox is what pisses me off. This woman is affectionately referred to as "Barbie," the quintessential image of feminine perfection.

The nickname is clever, but fitting. Blonde hair, blue eyes, thin frame, background in gymnastics and cheerleading…I can easily visualize her chanting "Be aggressive! Be, be aggressive!" in my mind. She's the polar opposite of what her birth name suggests. It is this contrast that draws people to her so much, I'm sure of it.

And I'm sure that she knows it, too. She may act somewhat bashful and humble, but I can see straight through her. Hell, I _am _her. But I've been doing this a lot longer and I'm a lot better at it. I'm irritated that she seems to be trying to take over my role as the gorgeous sweetheart of the WWE. Everyone can't stop raving about her and it's all I can do _not _to throw up anytime she's mentioned nowadays.

Without having to think about it much, my face lights up as I reach the duo. "Hey Barbie!" I greet enthusiastically, wrapping an arm around her shoulder in a light squeeze.

"Steph! We were just talking about you!"

I laugh out loud. "Oh really? I could've sworn I just saw Paul showing you how to throw punches. Not sure I like the direction of that chat," I joke.

"Oh don't be silly," she says good-naturedly, waving my fake suspicion off with her hand. "It's not like that. He mentioned a restaurant near the hotel that you guys enjoyed yesterday."

"Ohhhh," I drag out. "Gotcha."

"Now had you arrived earlier, he was demonstrating a submission technique. That one, I might use on you," she says playfully.

I snort back. "Please, Barbie. I'll break you." Though I chuckled through my statement, I mean it. If she keeps rubbing me the wrong way with her innocent, blonde twit act I will break her in various senses of the word. "I wouldn't take advice from Paul on how to get me to give up a fight," I suggest with a wink.

"_Paul _is standing right here, by the way," he chimes in, waving his hand in front of me. He's pouting as if he isn't serious. But I know better. He isn't thrilled that we girls are having a chit chat that he's not actually a part of.

With much exaggeration, I roll my eyes and sigh before turning to Kelly. I shrug at her and gesture to the tall blonde standing next to us.

Barbie holds her hands up in surrender. "All yours now, Steph," she says sweetly. She pats Paul on the arm briefly as a goodbye. She grabs me in a quick hug before walking back in the direction I came from.

"So," I begin slowly. "According to Blondie, you're now mine."

Paul pretends to be offended. "Do I even get a proper hello before you start," he waves his hands in random motions, "trading and selling me and stuff?"

I crack a smile and walk the couple of steps that it takes to reach him. I wrap my arms around his neck. "Hello," I whisper against his lips before I kiss him.

"So, what will you do with me now that you've got me?" He asks as we pull apart.

A tiny piece of me aches at this. I wish things could be different between us. I wish that he could look at me this way all the time. Lovingly. Longingly. Like I'm the only woman who exists in his universe. But it won't last. It never can…because even I am incapable of pretending forever. I consider these truths as…chinks in my armor. They're very small and not easily noticeable. But after being with someone so long, one builds a certain level of comfort. One momentarily forgets to continue to be what they are not, particularly in moments such as these. The armor begins to crack and vulnerabilities are revealed, in tune with the truth.

When I see it coming, I control these moments as much as possible.

"Hmm," I mutter as if I'm considering something wifely. I'm not. I sought him out and made sure he was in this kind of mood for a reason. I have news. "Unfortunately, I don't have enough time to do what I want with you," I say, my tone laced with regret as I intertwine my fingers with his.

"Oh," he says, less hopefully. "What's up?"

I glance around nervously; making sure no one is within earshot. "Shane. He's in deep shit. I'm walking around on eggshells so I don't end up in it with him."

His brow furrows with concern. He and Shane have grown relatively close over the years. "What happened?"

My shoulders lift in a shrug. "I'm not sure. My Dad was just…ranting and raving about him and not making a whole lot of sense. I just let him talk…even though I was in the room he didn't really seem to be speaking to me anyway. I'm technically just supposed to be going to the bathroom right now," I tell him with a little mischievous smile.

Paul smiles at my craftiness in getting a breather, and then shakes his head in the negative. "Neither of them has said anything to me about any issues. Maybe later I can-"

I squeeze his hand affectionately to stop him. "This is between them, Paul. Believe me; we have enough to worry about." I lead his hand until it is resting on my swollen stomach. The baby actually kicks right underneath our hands, solidifying the suggestion I just made. Still in the womb and already I know that this child will be my ally in keeping this marriage together.

I also know that Paul won't listen. His desire to be golden in the eyes of my family won't allow him to let this go. He likes to play peacekeeper and problem-solver. Almost as if to prove his worth…to prove that he's really an emotionally invested member of the McMahon family, rather than just having married into it for money and status. So he will insert himself into this situation sooner rather than later. Best of all, he'll leave me the hell out of it. He won't say that I mentioned the unidentified conflict.

Intricate webs weave together a mind. Studying and analyzing these webs is the key to understanding the way a person worked. Once you had that, you could plan and predict. You knew their limitations and could work with those, to get what you needed. Or wanted.

Clarification: I love my daughters. I love the baby I'm carrying, whether it's a girl or a boy. I love Paul. I love my friends and family. Sometimes I don't have to…maneuver things. That's a nice word for it. I just have restrictions on how many chinks I can afford to allow my armor to have before I am too weak.

Strength is power. To those that possess it comes the ability to build, destroy and expertly manipulate everything around oneself. To create a life that was ideal – the very best that you could do, given your potential.

I understand that I cannot be nor demand perfection in the literal sense of the word. After all, a life that's too perfect seems fishy. For me, perfection comes with knowing, predicting and creating situations, with total accuracy. I have limits on how far south things can go before I find it utterly ridiculous. I always know when Paul is doing too much damn thinking regarding our marriage – having doubts, regrets or plans for drastic change.

When that happens, it's time to reel him back in. I'd carefully dangle something and wait. Patiently. As soon as he's taken the bait I'd think: gotcha!

Happy again. In love again. Mine again.

I'm broken out of my thoughts by his hand leaving mine. He touches my face for a second instead. "You okay, Steph?"

I don't know why he's asking this. He didn't even respond to my request to stay out of my father and brother's drama. Perhaps he's seen something in my eyes. Was I smirking while I thought of how effectively I pulled him back to me after the Hall of Fame ceremony last month? "Huh?" I ask, unintelligibly.

"What were you thinking about just a second ago? You had this…look," he says vaguely.

Sad? Happy? Mean? Help me out here. I need something good and safe to say. Something that can easily explain any 'look' my face was displaying. "Oh. The baby kicked me."

Lie. But his hand wasn't on my stomach so he'll never know.


	5. Say the Word

Not even sure where this chapter came from; I figured I probably wouldn't try to update until next week. LOL. But it came to me today, so here it is! Things are picking up!

Read, enjoy, review!

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A dull aching resided throughout Stephanie's entire body. She felt bruised all over, but the pain of her head was most bothersome. She groaned out loud and slowly her eyes fluttered open.

She squinted at her surroundings, confused at the fact she did not recognize a damn thing. And then she remembered: someone had grabbed her from behind, held a cloth over her mouth and nose. From there she had no memories until waking up in the backseat of a moving vehicle. A speeding vehicle – which she had surmised as she was tossed around the back of it due to haphazardly taken turns. Her limbs had been bound together and she was blindfolded. There was nothing she could do to help herself and she'd had the notion that screaming bloody murder would land her in far worse trouble.

Maybe she should have taken her chances then, hoping that a passing motorist heard her. Because she failed to see how things could get any worse than _this._

She stretched her legs out in front of her before placing her hands against the linoleum floor to push herself to a standing position. Her body was jittery and unstable – the effects of being crumpled up together, unusable for however long. Her slender hands reached out and came into contact with cold, hard iron.

A prison cell. Not one of those fancy, new ones that they sent the white collar criminals to. But certainly an optimized one, judging by the fact she appeared to have a full bathroom attached. _How thoughtful of my captors, _she concluded with much sarcasm.

Other than the obvious, this felt so completely wrong. Her memory was a bit hazy but she distinctly recalled being thrown out of the vehicle and onto a much wider surface. She couldn't see, but she could sense that the area was open and spacious. Was she now in another part of the same place? Or had they moved her somewhere else entirely? What exactly was this place and how did they come to find it? Had they scouted it out and thought to put her here, long ago? Hell, had they even _built _the damn thing to confine her? Probably so; the floor was linoleum. She didn't know a lot about prison cells but she guessed that this wasn't the usual kind of flooring. Meaning that this room must have originally been something else. Converted likely just for her.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt completely dejected. She leaned her forehead against the bars. The cool iron actually felt soothing to the throbbing area. Still, that did nothing to stop the tears from falling.

What if she never saw the outside world again? What is this little fucking box was the rest of her life? She'd spend her days plotting escape, wondering about her daughters and -

Her daughters! Dear God, her babies. They were so young. How could they ever possibly understand that their Mommy just vanished into fucking thin air like this? And Paul. What would he think? She wasn't sure if he even actually cared…their fight this morning was awful. She'd provoked it, of course, because they'd reached another of his "reflections on marriage" stints.

So she'd played her part; confused, needy, vulnerable. Unable to understand what was happening to them and why.

_I want to make you happy, Paul. I used to be able to. Why has that changed? _

Paul had spared her an annoyed glance and continued shoving limbs into garments as if her words meant nothing. _You know exactly why._

_I don't know anything! You won't talk to me! _She'd shouted incredulously.

_Why should I give you more ammo against me, huh?_

_What the hell are you talking about?_

Paul had hesitated before he spoke next, unsure of how to frame his words. _You just…you fucking have a little folder in your head with my damn picture on it. Every single thing I say or do, you just store it in the damn file and figure out how to use it to get what you want from me later._

Stephanie had gaped at him openly before she was finally able to shake her head. _You're being ridiculous._

Blonde eyebrows rose so high they nearly touched his hairline. _Am I? _

_YES, you are. If you want out, Paul just say the word. You don't have to accuse me of…whatever the hell you're accusing me of._

A smirk from him._ You'd like that wouldn't you? I leave, with no proof of anything and you get to play the heartbroken wife. You get to be the martyr and I'm the bad guy. Everyone rallies to your side, you're universally loved, comforted and perfect and I'm exiled. Right?_

_You're wrong. _And he was. Should he have the guts to actually leave, there were precautions in place. Precautions that she continually, subtly worked at. Precautions that would inevitably drive him right back into their home, once he saw how bleak life without her was.

Nothing that she'd be informing him about ahead of time, of course. If he really went that far, she'd simply kick back and wait for the suffering to begin.

_Maybe so. Or maybe I'm right on target and you'll just never tell me. _

Next, had been her performance. One that would have him happily devoted and making love to her so passionately by the end of the night, that she'd think she was back in the year 2000.

Stephanie had breathed out a sigh as she padded barefoot over to her vanity. She'd sat down heavily and brushed through her hair, as if she was thinking very hard. _Maybe I'll say it for us, Paul. _

Intrigued, he walked over and stood behind her. Their gazes connected in the mirror. _Huh? _He asked, surprised and somewhat confused.

Blue eyes had cast downward, but she held them open long enough for them to produce a tear for her to wipe at. She'd glanced back up to meet his eyes. _Out, _she said simply. _I'm gonna think about what I want, for a change. And maybe when I've reached an answer, I'll say the word for both of us._

Paul had stared at her reflection in the mirror. His jaw had clenched, but not necessarily in anger. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words were failing him.

Stephanie had finally stood up, grabbed her shoes and was ready to head off to work. _Do you have anything to say to me before I go?_

He'd nodded and cleared his throat. _Yeah. Have a good day at work, _he'd told her gruffly as he brushed past her and slammed the bathroom door shut behind him.

Stephanie loosened the tight grip she held on the iron as she allowed the morning's events to wash over her. She slid down the bars until finally she was sitting on the floor again, promptly burying her head in her hands. A fresh onslaught of tears wracked her body.

She didn't mean for this to happen. If she were in Paul's shoes, a setup is the first thing that would come to mind. A disappearance, right after she'd told him she was going to consider whether or not to leave him? It had premeditation written all over it. She'd be lucky if the police even bothered to really look for her. If they did, what would they find?

An invisible, long list of enemies that had no idea they were her enemies. People she'd punished and destroyed, with them being none the wiser. In other words: absolutely nothing is what they would find. A complete dead end.

As her husband, Paul would be the prime suspect, of course. But she wholeheartedly refused to believe he had any part in this. There's no way she wouldn't have picked up on that kind of malice against her, from her own damn husband. But her…safeguards against him divorcing her was another story. If the cops got seriously involved _and _questioned certain people…it would only serve to make him look guilty. Especially if their marital turmoil, looming threat of her leaving him and of course, the fact that he'd sort of stood her up for lunch today, was revealed.

Every Wednesday they went to the same pizza spot for lunch. Jonny's. It was quaint, always moderately busy and the food was always delicious. She'd known he wouldn't come, simply because they were in a fight. But the cops? She didn't know what they'd think if they found out.

What a mess. What an absolute fucking mess. How had her carefully laid plans been blown so completely to hell and back?

The sound of a door opening broke up her pity fest. She sat up straight and clenched the bars in her hands again. Light poured in from the outside, illuminating an otherwise very dark, large area. There were tools, televisions, video equipment and all kinds of random shit cluttering the space. The floor was a mix of dirt and something else she couldn't identify just by sight. She picked these things up quickly before fixing her gaze to the figure approaching her.

A loud, broken laugh escaped her. Because she was just as amused as she was terrified. Her kidnapper was dressed like Ghost Face from that one horror movie. Scream. It was ridiculous, yet clever because she certainly couldn't recognize them by profile in this getup.

"Are you gonna ask me what my favorite scary movie is?" She questioned. Shortly after, she questioned her sanity for mocking someone who was holding her captive. Then again, she probably wasn't going to make it out of this alive anyway. So she may as well say what she truly felt.

Ghost Face walked closer, without responding. The figure came to a stop directly in front of her cell, passing a red, insulated pack of some kind underneath the bars. "No," it finally replied in a distorted voice.

Stephanie ignored the pack and stood up, keeping her eyes on the figure in front of her. "Why am I here?"

"Atonement."

"For what?"

"You don't deserve the life you have."

"You're a goddamn hypocrite to judge me! You fucking knocked me out, _kidnapped_ and imprisoned me!"

Quick as lightning, a gloved hand reached through the bars and grabbed her by the neck. Stephanie stared back at them, silently willing them to do it. Just go ahead and kill her. She'd rather cause her death purposely, rather than wait for this asshole to decide the date and time for her. They hadn't made an appearance yet, but she was quite certain she didn't hallucinate that there was a second individual involved earlier. She had no idea where that person stood, but imagined they were in unison where it concerned her.

The masked individual sighed loudly and pushed her away, releasing her neck. A small, distorted chuckle worked its way out. "You're good, I'll give you that," the voice told her, acknowledging what the young woman was trying to do.

"Go to hell," she said lowly.

Ghost Face shrugged. "I will, but you'll be coming to hell with me."

"So, future _neighbor_, tell me who you are." If she knew who it was, there was a chance she could get out of this on her own terms. At the very least, anything they said may unknowingly reveal a clue that would give her that information.

A gloved hand lifted, index finger wagging at her in a reprimanding manner. "Someone you've wronged many times," is all they were willing to say before they left her as suddenly as they'd appeared.

_So much for that idea, _she thought. Out of curiosity she reached down and retrieved the red pack. She unzipped it and found food. A turkey and cheese lunchable, an apple and a bottle of water. It wasn't much but it would keep her from total starvation. It would keep her alive.

Then it dawned on her. Her…living quarters, so to speak. They didn't want her rotting away to death in filth or her own waste. They didn't want her to starve her to death. They didn't want to choke her to death apparently. They wanted her alive. They wanted her to suffer.

"The truth," she whispered, just now recalling what the voices had said to her before she passed out earlier. She squinted out into the open again, barely making out the form of the televisions and equipment. The pieces of the puzzle came together slowly.

These…people that she'd apparently wronged. They wanted to record a confession of her actions. She was sure of it. What would they do then? Free her, maybe. Then would they broadcast the tape? Use it for blackmail so she couldn't turn the assholes in?

For a moment, she was going to refuse the food. She considered just lying here not eating, drinking, showering or doing anything else to preserve herself. She'd wither away and die of starvation, dehydration, infection or some terrible combination of the three. Somehow, she felt that these people would probably take to force feeding and bathing her, further adding to her degradation.

But could she really go on tape confessing…whatever it is they wanted to know? Did they only care about what she'd done to them – or to everyone else, as well? No. If they wanted _everything, _she wasn't doing it. She'd literally lose her entire life: her husband, her job, her family, and her friends. Hell she'd probably even lose her daughters, too. It was a fate worse than death. It was hell.

It would be total hell and she understood why Ghost Face's retort had been what it was. She was screwed unless she could find a way to turn the tables on people whose identities she didn't even know.


End file.
